


paz vizsla sfw alphabet

by teaofpeach



Series: hospitality [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alphabet Meme, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Implied Sexual Content, Mandalorian Culture, Mild Angst, Multi, No use of y/n, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pregnancy, References to Depression, Safe For Work, Slow Dancing, [mentions of], [nothing explicit], they're so married guys i can't even begin to describe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaofpeach/pseuds/teaofpeach
Summary: It’s not a part of his body he tends to leave vulnerable, the neck. Strategic weaknesses filter through his mind on reflex — carotid, C5 vertebrae, pressure points. And beyond that, it’s too easy to remove the helmet. A literal chink in the armour. But when you rest your chin on the junction between his neck and shoulder, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear, the tension dissolves. He’s exposed, and you make it feel so violentlygood.———you and paz, in 26 snapshots.a sfw prompt for each letter, set within the hospitality universe
Relationships: Paz Vizsla/Reader, Paz Vizsla/You, Reader & Original Child Character(s)
Series: hospitality [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1821520
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	paz vizsla sfw alphabet

**Author's Note:**

> ...hi. it's been a hot minute, sorry about that. this is something that's been on my tumblr for a while; decided to post it here, too.
> 
> i'm quite proud of this! exploring paz's character was pretty fun, he only shows up for about 5 minutes in the show so there's a lot of scope when it comes to his personality. hopefully i've done him justice.
> 
> drop some kudos and comments if you liked. or you know, if you didn't. :)
> 
> also, there's an important note at the end, so please check that out.

**A = Attractive; what do they find attractive about the other?**

Your flexibility. In the figurative sense, that is. The way you roll with the punches, absorbing everything around you and just… existing with it. There is a strength, Paz thinks, in the way that you adapt to whatever crosses your path. He, of all people, can understand what one must sacrifice to survive. But you handle it with more grace and temperance than he could ever dream of. 

Of all the virtues that Paz could hope to learn from you, this is what intrigues him the most. You have such a capacity for learning, for growing, and you don’t even know it. He admires how swiftly you keep aside one chapter of your life for the next, retaining your integrity all the while.

Late at night, when you’re dozing next to him with soft cloth secured around your eyes, a thought comes to him. A whim that he can only entertain in the dark, safe and hidden from the light of day. When the feeling of you, warm and bright at his side, seeps deep into his bones, a thought comes to him.

He thinks the Way would suit you very well.

**B = Baby; do they want a family? Why/why not?**

Paz has always seen family as a priority. It’s in his blood. What is a warrior but what he gives his children? Amongst the tribe, he’s popular with the foundlings purely because he’s just so _good_ with them, and that skill comes from a deep-rooted longing for his own.

After his people’s persecution, years of hiding underground dealt a blow to Paz’s pride. Mandalorians slaughtered, survivors left to scatter. The Nevarro covert’s disbandment only pushed the knife in deeper, twisting its jagged edges into his heart and leaving him snarling in his humiliated grief. The whole concept of _aliit_ — family, clan, tribe — a fundamental tenet upon which he was raised, has been shaken to the core. 

So family, to Paz, means _stability_. It means belonging. It means feeling safe enough to truly settle down. He’s seen generations of foundlings raised with the threat of Imperial persecution hanging over their heads, and it _sickens_ him. Besides many, many other things, Paz hates the Empire for taking the livelihood that these younglings deserve.

He’s only having children of his own if he knows they can be safe and that he can give them the life they deserve. Anything less would be irresponsible. A disgrace upon his helm and his dignity. With the current situation — constantly searching, traveling, living on a ship — having a baby just isn’t on his mind.

There’s also the fact that you and Paz already _have_ a child, in all but blood. _Aliit ori’shya tal’din_ , in its truest sense. Vosca is the reason he perseveres. She is what he fights for with every fibre of his being. And for all his rejection of family planning for the time being, he can’t deny the softness in his chest whenever she giggles at something you’ve said, bright and happy and _safe_.

Because you _adore_ Vosca. It’s in the way you stand, the way you breathe. You cup her small, round face with motherly protection. You teach her skills with a wisdom Paz isn’t sure you’re aware of. You watch over her with a vigilant, caring eye. Your axis has undeniably shifted to revolve around her, just as his did. You’ve both aligned with each other to encircle the child you love; a pair of binary moons in her orbit.

Paz could not drag his eyes away from his girls if he tried. He stares with an emotion his _buir_ explained to him once, one he’d never understood till he felt its pangs in his chest. Fatherly pride.

You braid her hair every morning, an indulgent smile gracing your lips as you hum along to her chattering, running your fingers through her umber locks, teasing out the tangles with care. You allow her to practice her braiding on your own tresses. You wince silently at each painful tug, nudging her fingers in the right direction and giving words of patient correction even as tears well in your eyes. 

You murmur poetry by her bedside to lull her to sleep, smooth back the baby hairs to kiss her forehead with affection singing from your every move. (You told him once that you don’t sing her lullabies because, in your own words, ‘you can’t carry a tune to save your life’. Personally, he’d like to judge for himself.)

You bite your nails in the doorway, hovering over the medic as they check Vosca’s fever. You nod at everything they say, a frown worrying your brow even as you’re told the illness is mild. In moments like these, Paz is grateful for the stoic nature the helmet lends him. But your smaller hand slipping into his own is a comfort all the same.

He swallows the lump in his throat as Vosca runs towards you both, calling out with a laugh, _“Alor’ad, Ruusaan!”_ Because to her, you have become a unit. Together, as her parents. And so, he’s content with the child that you’re both raising.

Sometimes, though, he’ll notice things. He notices _you,_ and he wonders. Your lips parting in delighted surprise. The white strokes of your face, sloping across your cheekbones and stretching around a fond smile. The morning light washing over your hair, a halo in plain sight.

Paz wonders what your children would look like. _Will_ look like, if he’s being particularly idealistic. His eyes? Your nose? They’d be lucky to have any part of you as their own.

And his breathing will hitch, from time to time, at a sudden vision of you. A palm splayed over your swollen belly, round with child — _his_ child — as you hold Vosca’s hand. Smiling at him, in that innocently maddening way that you do.

Just a spirit. A figment of his imagination. But it’s all he sees when he closes his eyes.

Paz wonders.

**C = Cuddle; how do they cuddle?**

Generally, Paz is content to let you position his limbs to your liking. After all, he’s the one taking up most of the space, and being close to you is never a hardship, regardless. He’ll hum and sigh in your hold as you tangle your legs between his own, snaking both arms around his ribs. Although sometimes, the urge to feel you is overwhelming. Paz will brace a palm on your waist, running it up and down your side slowly, relishing the simple pleasure of your body next to his own. He will press his forehead — steel or skin alike — to yours, eyes drifting shut as he feels the steady rise and fall of your chest, the pounding of your heartbeat. He smiles.

Paz likes to be wrapped around you. He likes having your warmth pressed against him so tightly he can’t tell where he ends and you begin. Whether the helmet is on or not, Paz _shudders_ when you press your face into his neck. It feels loving in a way that renders him speechless.

It’s not a part of his body he tends to leave vulnerable, the neck. Strategic weaknesses filter through his mind on reflex — carotid, C5 vertebrae, pressure points. And beyond that, it’s too easy to remove the helmet. A literal chink in the armour. But when you rest your chin on the junction between his neck and shoulder, murmuring sweet nothings into his ear, the tension dissolves. He’s exposed, and you make it feel so violently _good_. 

When you’re in the blindfold, allowing him the freedom of foregoing the helm, he will kiss along the white stripes of your face. Even the ones hidden by the cloth, pecking the elegant shapes he knows instinctually, better than the back of his hand. Paz presses kisses into your hair, enjoying the softness against his lips, and the way you lean into the touch.

**D = Dates; what are dates with them like?**

Dates are rare. Between Paz’s bounties, looking after Vosca, maintaining the ship, managing supplies, and your own odd jobs taken up to earn some extra credits — you’re both kept busy. The little time you get alone is typically spent in the cockpit, preparing for the next journey. Or in your bed, where talking is the _last_ thing on your mind, be it for sleep or anything else.

But if there is, inexplicably, time for a date, then it’s a quiet, intimate thing. Once in a blue moon, when everything falls into place.

Paz finds you in the hull, rearranging supplies and taking inventory. Busywork, really. Nothing urgent. You’re facing the wall, and the sight of your silhouette draped across the durasteel is something he’d like to remember. 

Carefully, before you notice his presence, he swipes a finger across the holo-tab in his hands. But you’re sharp, and that uncanny sixth sense you have must have kicked in, because you turn to him. “What are you lurking around for?” You narrow your eyes, voice curling with amusement.

He doesn’t answer, tapping the blasted tablet a couple more times before—

A melody begins to play. Something slow and lilting, crooning through the cold, hollow space. _Finally._

Your brows shoot up. “Oh, what’s— what’s this?”

Paz sets the holo aside on a stray crate, and steps forward, offering you a hand. He clears his throat, strangely nervous, before asking, “Would you like to dance?”

You let out a startled laugh as he takes your palm in his, bringing the other to settle on his shoulder. You shoot him a secretive, bashful grin, the kind that makes his heart flutter pathetically in his chest. Surely you can feel it, hammering away against the skin.

His other hand snakes round your waist, bringing your frame closer. Your breathing is shallow, he notes smugly. But then you peer up through your lashes, and his breaths turn ragged, too.

Oh, the way you look at him. Like he’s hung the stars in the sky. He does not deserve such reverence. But who is he to deny your affections? So precious, so gracefully given?

The music swells, surrounding the two of you. Unsurely, Paz tries turning to the beat, just as you shift in the opposite direction. His boot stumbles over yours, and you both flounder for a moment, desperately trying to stay upright. You end up stumbling a few steps, rapidly lurching to the side for one worrying second before you manage to detangle your legs from his own. Somehow, you manage not to tumble to the floor.

You raise a brow. 

He’s about to mutter an apology, embarrassed by the slip — his weight collapsing on your foot can’t be pleasant — but then he sees the twinkle in your eye.

“Got two left feet, huh, tin can?” Your tongue peeks out lightly under a canine, playful and teasing and everything he treasures.

“This wasn’t exactly part of basic training,” he says dryly, and you smother a snort in his chest. “Besides, Mandalorians don’t dance like this.”

“Like this?”

“All… delicate. Swaying without direction.”

You look at him curiously. “How do you dance, then?” Your fingers tap to the beat on his shoulder, drumming little bursts of rhythm that have him unreasonably distracted.

It takes Paz a moment to register the question. “Well, firstly,” he murmurs, “Our dances are meant for the battlefield. For victories, ceremonial funerals…” 

You nod, and he takes it as permission to continue. “It’s usually quite solid. A lot of stomping. And synchronised formations.” He clicks his tongue. “Come to think of it, many of the dances are just combat sequences with drums in the background.”

Your eyes soften. “It sounds fun.”

“It was.” Paz hesitates. Then he sighs, as if to physically expel the melancholy creeping into his voice. Not now, not with you. Later. “Not that _this_ isn’t, I mean.” He gestures to the two of you with his head.

You hum dubiously, and a smile finds its way to his lips, somehow. He doesn’t know how you do that. “Oh, sure. Falling over your own feet is _real_ fun.”

“With you? Always.” 

You roll your eyes, but he notices how you press your cheek to his chest, determinedly avoiding his gaze. The heat of your blush reaches him through the shirt. 

Slowly, Paz winds his arm tighter around your waist, pressing you to him just a little tighter. You sigh, and the sheer contentment in the noise is enough for his eyes to flutter shut behind the visor.

But then you catch him by surprise. With a deliberate, surprisingly strong twist, you spin the two of you around. You beam at Paz as he blinks, dazed by the sudden shift. “ You asked to dance, _Mando?_ Then let’s dance.”

**E = Everything; you are my ____. (e.g. my life, my world, etc.)**

Balance. You give Paz a counterweight on the precarious scales of his rage and responsibility. 

He’s used to communal living. In the tribe, he was one of the pillars of the community, bearing the collective burden with his brethren alongside him. After the covert disbanded, he’s left with all this anger and grief and bitterness — not to mention a child to raise _alone_ — with none of the support. The scales are tipped far, far out of equilibrium, and it feels like the weight of the galaxy rests on his lone shoulders.

Until you. 

You listen to him. There is never judgement in your gaze, nor pity. Only a sad, deep understanding that is well older than your years. And beyond that, you command. You command him to think, to breathe, to rest. To relinquish the burden he has chained to himself. You centre him, clearing his sight both from the haze of rage and the blur of tears.

You teach him how to simply _be,_ and his shoulders feel a little lighter.

**F = Feelings; when did they know they were falling in love?**

Much after Nevarro. Initially, you were a passing fancy; a pretty face, easy to talk to. After, you became a friend during a time when he truly couldn’t imagine making any. You were trustworthy, though it wasn’t love.

Then Din was attacked by the Guild, and Nevarro fell to pieces.

He came to you blindly, stumbling through the wreckage of the tribe and his own turmoil, barely holding it together for Vosca’s sake, desperate for sanctuary.

You extended your hospitality. You did what you always do; help and heal and mend. Perhaps that was when it started. When he realised you refused to be scared off, even as your knees trembled and your face paled. You eased his workload, made him laugh. You made things _better_. You still do.

It’s not an epiphany. There’s no dramatic moment of realisation that stops him in his tracks. But Paz finds his thoughts turning to you all the time. 

When he passes through a market place and sees a sale, he thinks of how you’d haggle to cut the prices even further. When he sees earthy cloth printed with vaguely familiar white, geometric designs, he thinks they don’t do yours justice. When he eats, he thinks back, trying to recall if you’ve eaten, if it was enough, if you liked it.

And then you’re sitting across from him explaining why you should exchange a portion of your credits for Calamari Flan, wildly gesticulating with your hands, heatedly describing how it would retain value and better your negotiation power and he realises—

_I love you._

**G = Gentle; are they gentle? If so, how?**

Extremely so. Unless you ask him to, Paz refuses to lay an indelicate hand on you. He’s aware of how he could overpower you, given the chance. So he takes pride in how deeply you trust him not to.

Every touch is measured. Not walking on eggshells, but not careless either.

His words are soft-spoken, too. Not his volume — his voice is naturally booming. Even his whispers seem to resonate. But his tone. The words he chooses are simple, honest. He regards what you say with acute focus, because he wants you to offer you the same consideration you grace upon him. Even if it’s just a fraction of what you have gifted him, he would like to repay as much as he can.

In your bed, though? When you’re spread out beneath him, arching into his touch, looking so _small?_

Well. When he knows you like it, he can’t help but let go.

**H = Hand; how do they like to hold hands?**

Holding your hand is not the go-to for Paz. You both need your hands free for whatever the day throws at you, be it your little girl’s scraped knee or some raiders angling for your supplies. It isn’t practical to hinder mobility like that, not when there’s work to be done.

Affection in public as a whole is limited, really. Best not to distort the image of the _fearsome_ Mandalorian. Avoids trouble, keeps things simple. But Paz finds a way. A brush of leather against your fingers as you walk through a hangar, side by side. A deliberate hand on the small of your back, offering support during trade negotiations. And maybe to send the lecherous stall-owner a very _pointed_ message.

It does happen, though; occasionally, you do hold hands. In darker alleyways, or under cool forest shade, or in the familiarity of the ship. Surprisingly, Paz is always the one to initiate. His fingers will sneak into your palm out of the blue, sliding over skin and cradling your hand tenderly, gloves or no. He melts every time. How could he not? With the way your loose fist curls open like a flower in bloom, petals gently allowing him the sweet nectar of your embrace — the feel of your hand in his is grounding. 

**I = Impression; what was their first impression of the other?**

Civilian. Armed, but untrained. Meek — has a spine, but it comes and goes. Easily swayed by payment.

Now, sitting by the ship’s open hatch, watching on as you teach Vosca some clapping game in the grass up ahead, he thinks it’s almost funny. How such an ill-fated first encounter could lead to everything he holds dear.

**J = Joker; are they into pulling pranks?**

With everything he has to worry about, Paz doesn’t have the time to plan out elaborate practical jokes. He’s lost a lot of the motivation; it’s just not the same without the tribe. But he’s playful by nature, and it shows. As he’s passing you, he’ll pinch your hips, poke your waist. Anything to get you to squirm. He likes the feeling of being allowed to touch you so casually, too. 

Since he discovered that you can sense being watched, he finds it amusing to just stare at you from behind until you run out of patience to _finally_ whirl round and demand what he’s upto. It’s your own fault, really. If you didn’t react so explosively, there would be no temptation. Paz will prod just because he can, and he takes vicious satisfaction in your exasperation.

(But when you’re somewhere a little chillier, you can take subtle victories too. Since he runs so warm, you get a kick out of sticking your freezing-cold hands down his shirt. If only because hisses so violently.)

**K = Kisses; how do they kiss?**

Hungrily. Like he’s trying to savour the taste of you before it disappears forever. 

And it’s not necessarily about sex. Obviously, Paz can only kiss you once the helmet is off — to even kiss you at all, that’s not a loophole he abuses lightly. You _must_ be wearing a blindfold. He trusts you, but he can’t take the risk of a simple accident forcing him to renounce the Creed. How many horror stories were circulated amongst the newly-sworn _Mando’ade,_ of a mere slip of the fingers destroying one’s entire way of life?

He feels _sick_ with guilt for forcing it on you. Paz wonders if this is the love you imagined yourself to have, if you find it all worth it. No matter how many times you say you don’t mind, that you wouldn’t trade this for anything. But he can’t give up the feeling of his mouth on you, either. It’s addictive.

In some twisted way, it’s almost a comfort that you long to kiss him as well. Paz sees the way you stare at his helm when you think he’s not looking. He sees how you press your lips together, as if to physically suppress the urge bubbling up within you. You glance away hurriedly every time, and he has to clench his jaw and move forward.

Some stubborn, selfish part of him hates that he can’t have his cake and eat it too. When he kisses you, he wants to see your lashes flutter against your skin. He wants to take you by surprise, your pupils blooming with desire as he captures your lips when you least expect it. He wants the freedom to taste you whenever he wants. Whenever _you_ want.

But he can’t. This is the Way.

So he compromises. Whenever he _can_ kiss you, Paz makes the most of it. Behind the closed doors of your quarters, no one else in the galaxy but the two of you. You smile faintly as he lavishes your face in feather-light pecks; on your forehead, across your cheeks — even on your eyes, with just enough pressure for you to feel it through the cloth — and you sigh. He gets bolder as he goes, nipping at your neck lightly, catching your lips between his teeth, leaving dark little love-bites as crawls his way across the expanse of your skin. He loves the way you gasp against his mouth, smile into his embrace.

Even when they’re gentle, innocent kisses, Paz kisses you with urgency. They could be the most chaste, closed-mouth pecks, but he’ll clutch your face with reverence. You can feel the _want_ radiating from him, and it has nothing to do with sex. Whether you two go to bed in that sense or not, he tries to kiss as much of you as he can. It’s not just being able to touch you without the helmet on, being able to expose his mouth at all. 

It’s the fact that he can experience you _unfiltered._

The smell of your soap, the softness of your skin, the warmth of your mouth. Paz notices, in the dim light of your quarters, that the markings on your face are more of an alabaster. Softer than the pure, stark white he’d first observed through the visor. So much more vivid than he could ever see from under beskar and leather. He craves it.

To Paz, kisses represent everything he can learn about you. They represent the vulnerability he shares with you, and that which you give him in return.

In his kisses, Paz drinks in as much of you as he can.

**L = Little Things; what little things do they love/notice?**

It slips out of your pocket one night. Or rather, whatever counts as night in the infinite expanse of hyperspace. While you’re doing some basic accounting in the co-pilot’s chair as he finishes up plotting the next course, Paz notices it.

A dark streak on the ground, slippery-soft like a rattlesnake in the grass.

“What’s this?” he asks you, bending to retrieve the cloth from just next to your ankle.

You glance up from your sums, brows raised. “Hm? What’s wha—” You catch sight of what he’s holding and immediately, your hand flies to your pocket, patting it down searchingly only to find it empty. “Oh. That.”

You accept it from his proffered hand hastily, mouth flattening into an awkward line, and Paz tilts his head. What reason do you have to be flustered?

“It’s the, uh, blindfold. You know. Our blindfold.”

“I thought you keep it by the bunk,” he says.

You hesitate, struggling to find words. The workings of your mind — that wonderfully sharp mind he adores so dearly — are plain to see on your face. “It’s— I mean, yes, I used to. Just… not anymore.”

“Oh?”

Your fingers begin to wring the cloth with a vengeance, fingertips worrying the fine weave nervously. In contrast, your face appears calm; your eyes follow some distant point out the window, firmly avoiding his shielded gaze. Like a swan, frantically kicking below the surface just to float so still. Maybe it’s childish, but he doesn’t want you looking out the window. Paz wants you looking at him.

His hand, heavy and delicate all at once, comes to rest on your knee. His thumb rubs back and forth the covered skin. _“Ruusaan.”_ Coming from him the name is as good as any flowery epithet a lover could conjure — dear, sweetheart, my love. All of them, all at once. 

Your lips quirk into a rueful grin. “Charmer.” You look back to him with a sigh. “Ah, I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. It’s just fanciful, really. I keep it with me.”

“All the time?” Paz is surprised. Not that it’s particularly difficult to carry such an innocuous thing, but he hadn’t noticed.

“Yes,” you breathe. “All the time. It just— It feels right, you know? Like a… rosary, or something. Or a good luck charm.” You nod gravely, as if to reaffirm the words as truth. 

Then a shy smile creeps across your face, just as sweet and slow as the purest honey he’s ever had the pleasure to taste. “And it reminds me of you. So I like to keep it with me.”

You shrug. As if his heart isn’t _wrenching_ at your words.

Paz squeezes your knee, and you can feel those three words being pressed into your skin.

**M = Marriage; do they want to get married? How do they propose? What would the marriage be like?**

Paz definitely wants to marry you. Maker, he’d love nothing more. Especially since he’s almost certain you’d say yes. You’re both married in all but name anyway, and the thought of linking himself to you in _riduurok_ leaves him breathless. 

And, of course, the bantha in the room. The helmet. 

You’ve never asked to see his face. Always respectful, always understanding. You accepted this particular caveat with a readiness he hadn’t expected. And yes, if things were perfect, he _would_ ask you to marry him.

But things aren’t perfect.

Coming back to his idea of family, Paz feels that marriage brings a certain responsibility. He _can’t_ marry you, not when things are so turbulent. Constantly moving, travelling. No peace till he finds what remains of the tribe. (A dark, writhing corner of his mind whispers a correction: _if_ he finds them. And then where would he be? Stuck in an endless present, chasing after a dream that doesn’t exist. He can’t chain you to that. He would never.)

In short, Paz wants to get his shit together first.

He can’t ask you to take such a step if he can’t ensure your safety. Not yet. It wouldn’t be fair. So he waits. His determination in the search, his tenacity and near-desperation in all his actions belie his urge to get it _done._ The faster he can give you security — security of life, of happiness, of home — the faster he can exchange vows with you.

It’s not a question of if. It _will_ happen. 

It’s a question of the right time.

**N = Nickel; how do they spoil? Do they buy the person they love everything?**

Mandalorian courting traditions dictate that Paz, in pursuing the object of his affection, should provide offerings. A portion of his rations, a share of his ammunition. It translates to sharing his life with them. All that is his, is theirs.

What the two of you have is far from traditional, but there is an urge to fulfil the customs he’s been raised with. And beyond that, Paz would _like_ to spoil you. It delights him to see you happy. However, you don’t make it easy. 

You’re stingy. Brutal, almost, in the way that you cut expenditure and save credits wherever you can, and he’s grateful for it — Maker knows the _Hawk IV’s_ finances are handled much better in your capable hands. You’ve taught him where he’s being swindled, where he can find a better deal. Where he could afford to spend a little more, to spend less in the long run.

But the only times he’s seen you indulge on luxuries is for Vosca and, on a somewhat rarer note, for him. Nothing for yourself.

And it’s not like you don’t want to. He can see it in the way you pause, in the way you offhandedly mention a passing fancy with too much longing to truly be _passing._

Your gaze will linger on a flowing, elegant skirt: _“Too flimsy.”_

Or a real antiquated paper-and-leather tome: _“It’s a botany textbook. What would I do with it?”_

Or even a golden, cream-filled cake, glistening with syrup: _“We have enough rations on the ship. Did you see the price? Absolutely not.”_ And there’s one common thread running from your lips each time.

_Not worth it. Not worth it. **Not worth it.**_

It frustrates Paz to no end because he thinks it _is_ worth it. If it would make you smile then it’s always worth it. But he knows you’d never accept anything frivolous. He’s sure that if he did buy you anything that _didn’t_ have a utilitarian function, you’d return it immediately. _Too strict with your own desires,_ he thinks, fond yet exasperated. 

He’s nothing if not determined, though. So he does what he can.

Your boots are worn out? No need to repair the soles, he’s just bought a pair to replace them. Steel-toed, like you mentioned a while ago. Your chrono’s broken? Ah, the tradesman had a sale anyway, so he picked up a new one for you. The display’s more efficient, and the power cells last longer. Your sweater tore? Well, Vosca needed a new tunic and the seamstress threw in a spare cloak she had lying around. Yes, the hood is fur-lined. He might have paid for some modifications.

Paz spoils you under the guise of functionality, no matter how painstaking the effort might be. It satisfies some baser, primal part of his brain to give you things that make you happy. And, over time, maybe he’ll wear you down. Convince you to really spend on yourself for once. 

For now though, he keeps an eye out for whatever you’d accept from him. The way you melt each time, leaning into him _so_ sweetly? 

It’s definitely worth it.

**O = Orange; what colour reminds them of their other half?**

Pink. A range of it, really. It’s a colour he associates with soft acceptance, and that is something you give him in spades. 

And then there’s the fruit you grew at the inn. _Bola bola._ The sight of your lips stained with its vibrant coral juice is something he can’t forget.

**P = Pet Names; what pet names do they use?**

_Ruusaan_ is the obvious one. It’s what Paz refers to you as the most, since Vosca does the same. Some part of him is keenly aware that since you’re technically fugitives, it would make the most tactical sense to avoid using real names in public. So he enjoys having something to call you that’s safe, yet not impersonal. Every time you brighten at the name, a crackle of joy bursts in his chest. Calling you _Ruusaan_ feels right.

When you’re in the safety and privacy of the ship, he likes to stick to your name. Tastes sweet on his tongue, like that pinkish fruit you offered him all those months ago. Vosca always wrinkles her nose, preferring to use the moniker they gave you. Apparently your name _“just sounds wrong”._

From time to time, though, he calls you something new, flitting between various terms of endearment. _Cyare_ is a go-to for flirting, purely for its accuracy — beloved. It flusters you the most, he’s noticed. Something about his voice, the way he says it. And in more tender moments, _ner kar’ta_ — my heart — spills from his lips without thought.

But to hear Paz truly wax poetic is in the faraway hours of early-morning, in the haven of your bed, on the cusp of yesterday and tomorrow. He can barely make out the silhouette of your face against the pillow as you lie asleep next to him. It is in this time that he will whisper what he feels for you. He will name you _naak, mirshko, mirdala._ Peace, courage, intelligence.

As brash and bold a warrior he can be, Paz is an old philosophical soul at heart. He can call you sweet, pretty, lovely — anything, really, as much as you like. They’re all true. But the words inscribed in his heart can only flow in _Mando’a_. It feels like sacrilege to translate.

Addressing you in his people’s tongue blurs the line between you and them. Washes away the distinction of _aruetii_ to envelop you in the fold of his heart. He is a Mandalorian. That is is his identity. But he is also _yours,_ and the nicknames help him to merge the two parts of him together. They help him coexist with himself.

**Q = Questions; what are the questions they’re always asking?**

“May I?”

You’ve both come a long way since your disastrous first meeting. Even so, it still sticks with Paz just how frightened you were. There’s no guilt — not anymore, you won’t allow it — but he’s learned to communicate a little more about his actions. The other _Mando’ade_ of the tribe rarely require verbal cues of intent; without facial expression to support communication, they’re used to speaking through physicality, so words are often unnecessary. Every shift, twist and tilt means something on the battlefield.

But you’re not like that. As much as you _have_ picked up on the way he moves, and the thought behind it, you seem more at ease when he provides some forewarning. Nothing patronising. Just a heads-up, a quick check, before he does something. It’s only polite.

**R = Remember; their favourite memory of the other.**

[REDACTED FOR SPOILERS]

**S = Sad; how do they cheer themselves/each other up?**

It creeps up on him, sometimes. A wave of grief for his fallen brothers and sisters. Rage, at the injustice of their slaughter. Guilt, for barely giving them the proper rites to reach _Manda_ , to ascend to the _Ka’ra_. 

And he can’t keep it to himself, either, because he’s that _selfish._ No, Paz becomes so morbidly silent that it’s oppressive, crushing both Vosca’s spirits and your own. He sees it, the amused spark in your eyes dissolving and giving way to concern.

Paz doesn’t want to be like this, he _doesn’t,_ but he can only watch as it overtakes his body. Like a stranger within the beskar; tugging his limbs, choking his breath, muting his voice. So, to avoid burdening the two of you with it, he tries to make himself useful. Anything, just to feel like he’s doing something _right._ Isolates himself in a nest of wires, soldering and re-soldering till everything’s fixed and he keeps going anyway.

He’s absorbed in the finger-numbing work when you find him. He catches a glimpse of your tousled hair from the corner of his eye. You stifle a groggy yawn, and he registers faintly that you just woke up. For him. It leaves a warm feeling in his chest and a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Paz?” you ask sleepily. He sighs, placing the tools on the ground. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing, _Ruusaan._ Go back to sleep.” You step closer, feet padding gently against the cold floor to stand behind him. He feels your hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing the muscle lightly.

“That’s a lot of wires for _nothing_.” Your voice floats in the air teasingly, but he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look at you, just hums at the feeling of your hand running back and forth over his shoulder, from the nape of his neck to his upper arm.

You exhale slowly, and the sound rings in his ears. He wants to respond, reassure you that he’s alright, he’ll be fine. He wants to speak, say _anything_ at all just to relieve the burden he’s placing on you. But he can’t.

Paz feels rather than hears you shift, lowering to your knees. In his mind’s eye, your sleep shirt is rucked up gently around your hips, pooling with the fabric of your trousers. Lashes fluttering as you blink the fatigue out of your eyes. If only he could bring himself to turn and _look_ at you, the vision that you are. 

Your hand is still on his shoulder, burning through the cloth of his shirt. The outline of your fingers on his skin, loving and constant. There is no other brand he would rather bear.

There’s a slight pressure between his shoulder blades. Your forehead, Paz realises, leaning against his back.

“Y’wouldn’t mind some company, would you?” He shakes his head. You can’t see the motion, too busy burying your face in his shirt, but he thinks you understand.

You stay like that for a while. The heat of your face reaches his skin, seeps through the bones and drips in his blood. Paz doesn’t remember when he dropped the torch and wires.

Then your voice arises again, low and calm. “Breathe, love.” So you’ve noticed. Paz tries to find it in himself to feel embarrassed, but he can’t focus on anything other than the feeling of you, sweetly pressed against him.

You rub circles into his ribcage, as if to coax his airways to open up wider. Slow, rhythmic movements. Paz closes his eyes and sighs deeply. Everything… fades out. The ship’s engines beneath, the rustle of wires, his heartbeat pounding in his ears — it all falls to mute. He can’t feel anything but your palm against his back. It’s pleasant.

Paz doesn’t know how long it takes him to come back. But when he does, you’re still behind him, stroking silent kindness into his skin. Patience, acceptance.

“Thank you,” he croaks, and his voice hitches somewhere in the middle. He feels you shaking your head before the words finish crackling through the vocoder, insisting there is nothing to be grateful for with such vehemence he swears he can feel every wrinkle of your frown.

**T = Talking; what do they love to talk about?**

Paz likes to speak of his people. Word-of-mouth has always been the way of the _Mando’ade,_ passing on stories of battles and legends to the next generation. At first, he was hesitant. Not because of you; if anything, you managed to loosen his lips, feel more at ease with talking about where he comes from. He likes the way curiosity lights up your expression.

But it’s painful, sometimes. Mandalorian history is too bloody, smeared with ash and bile and tears. He’s not ashamed — they are warriors through and through, and that is the way of war. Paz will preserve the legacy of his people to his dying breath. That’s never been in question. But it’s difficult. Like broken glass being wrenched from his throat, cracked and jagged and slicing his heart on the way up. 

So, to make it easier, he speaks of the good. Of the warm memories, the lighter times. A gaggle of foundlings yapping at his heels in stone corridors. Misfiring his jetpack the day he received it. Getting his bell rung by his _buir_ for his efforts and laughing it off. The good.

Gradually, the glass melts. Molten, still dangerous. But it flows more easily. Paz feels freer, now, to tell you of the horrors. The battle cries morphing into pained screams. The hatred he feels rising in his chest at the mere thought of the Empire.

This isn’t necessarily something he loves to talk about. But with you, he learns how.

**U = Understanding; how good do they know their partner? Are they empathetic?**

Very empathetic. Paz worries, sometimes, that he can overlook your troubles. He doesn’t, you assure him. But he worries.

He knows you well enough to sense if something’s off, but he’s no mind-reader. Paz won’t immediately catch on to what the problem is unless it’s glaringly obvious, so he usually just asks you directly. His logic is simple and direct: he loves you. When you’re sad, he wants to fix it.

He’s aware that his usual tactic of storming in guns-blazing is… decidedly _not_ the best course of action, here. So Paz listens. If something’s bothering you, he’ll hear all of it. Talk his ear off, as long as you like, and he won’t mind. Paz will treat it with consideration and his entire attention, no matter how small it may seem. 

If talking’s not an option, then he’ll give you a shoulder to cry on. In the most literal sense, he will hold you in his arms for as long as you need, petting the base of your skull and letting you listen to his heartbeat. Even if you can’t communicate what’s wrong, he’ll offer his support as best he can.

**V = Very ___; their thoughts about each other. (e.g. she’s very smart, he’s very stubborn, they’re very annoying, etc.)**

You’re very old-fashioned, he thinks. Not in a backward way; far from it. If Paz ever _thought_ of telling you to stick to the kitchen he doesn’t think he’d live to tell the tale.

But your ideals of respect and manners go beyond the hustle and bustle of the modern era, surely ingrained in you from a childhood long gone. It’s the way you acknowledge him — whoever you’re talking to, really — with your full attention. What thresholds mean to you, how you never cross one lightly, whichever form they appear in. Your kindness, lined with grace and temperance and a concealed sliver of steel.

And, of course, your hospitality.

**W = Wild Card; a random fluff headcanon.**

Paz hums when he’s idling. Out of combat, if there’s no reason to be worried — and only if _he’s_ determined so, because he’s paranoid like that — you can sometimes hear a faint melody rumbling from the helmet.

It began as a way to stay awake during night-patrols. Back when he’d barely gotten used to the helm, just a boy who couldn’t stay awake that long. He can’t count the number of times he’d get a flick to the back of the head for dozing on the job.

His first partner, Theza, had tried to help him. A warrior only a couple of years his senior, they’d give him a swift kick in the shin if an elder was approaching. And fling gravel at his helmet. And pinch his arm, at the precise point on his elbow left exposed without armour, hard enough to hurt through his thick under-layers.

He hadn’t quite appreciated their methods back then. 

But eventually, once they realised physical jolts were doing _nothing_ to keep his eyes open, Theza changed tack. They’d hum a tune, and command Paz to repeat. “That’s an order, _verdi’ka_ ,” they’d say, glee evident in their tone, and he’d have no choice but to go along with their antics. 

He repeated. Clumsily, yes — his voice would crack between crests and dips in pitch, and he could never seem to hold a note as long as them — but he repeated. Over and over again, until they were satisfied he could parrot it back without falter.

New night, new song. Something to keep Paz awake, and something to convince Theza that he was still a child, underneath all that noise and metal.

And if there came a night when Theza’s scarlet helmet was slumped forward in slumber, their soft snores mingling with Paz’s tune, then no one had to know.

**X = Xylophone; what’s their song?**

Home, by Toby Fox. A little nostalgic, a little melancholy. Stumbling slightly here and there. But mostly just hopeful for wherever you’re going. And maybe realising that where you are isn’t so bad after all.

**Y = You; the ___ to my ___. (e.g the cookies to my milk, the macaroni to my cheese, etc.)**

This ties in a little to how he addresses you in Mando’a when you’re alone in your sleeper. _Mesuum’ika bah ner sho’cye, _he calls you.__

__‘The moon to my ocean.' A grounding force, steadily pulling and pushing him wherever he needs to be._ _

__**Z = Zebra; if they wanted a pet, what pet would they get?** _ _

__A pet isn’t exactly practical living aboard a gunship. Too much hassle, an extra responsibility he doesn’t need. But if the circumstances were different?_ _

__He’d like a lizard. Sturdy enough to survive dry climates, a relatively low-maintenance companion. Secretly, Paz has always liked reptiles, ever since he was a boy. He’d watch the salamanders and geckos from a distance, peeking out from behind stray boulders, waiting for the plumes of fire his _buir_ had told him stories of. They were descendants of dragons, and so Paz found them worthy of his admiration. _ _

__The way they skittered through the barren landscape, blending in with sand and rock and dust, amazed him. It seemed miraculous, that something so small and spindly could outlast most life in the desert._ _

__To watch them, Paz learnt to lie so still you wouldn’t even recognise him; not the loud, blustering boy that he was._ _

__He’ll talk to the newest crew member, too. Have one-sided conversations while he runs errands, ignoring how you roll your eyes with a smile._ _

__Also, the lizard definitely sits on his pauldron. Lazily sprawled over the metal like its own little pedestal. It’s comfortable for the both of them. You think it’s cute._ _

**Author's Note:**

> translations, excluding those already given, in order of mention:
> 
>  _Aliit ori’shya tal’din_ \- ‘Family is more than blood’, a common Mandalorian expression.
> 
>  _Buir_ \- Parent
> 
>  _Alor’ad_ \- Captain
> 
>  _Ruusaan_ \- ‘Reliable one’, a popular female Mandalorian name.
> 
>  _Mando’ade_ \- Mandalorians (pl.), sons and daughters of Mandalore.
> 
>  _Beskar_ \- Mandalorian iron
> 
>  _Riduurok_ \- A marriage ceremony/agreement, a love bond.
> 
>  _Mando’a_ \- The language of Mandalore/Mandalorians.
> 
>  _Aruetii_ \- Foreigner, outsider, non-Mandalorian.
> 
>  _Manda_ \- The collective soul, heaven.
> 
>  _Ka’r_ a - Stars, from a Mandalorian myth that fallen kings reside in the stars.
> 
>  _Verd’ika_ \- Private (military rank), can be used affectionately, often to a child.
> 
> ———
> 
> the aforementioned Important Note™️:
> 
> here's the thing about hospitality. it is... super disorganised. it was the first fic i'd ever posted properly and i hadn't thought out the plot or chapter order at ALL. complete shambles, really. i also don't think it's a fair reflection of how my writing's improved since.
> 
> so **hospitality is going on indefinite hiatus.**
> 
> i still have ideas for it! i still want to expand on it! but it needs some major revision. the series is NOT dead - just under construction. i'll probably still post little extraneous snippets like this alphabet.
> 
> thank you so much to everyone who's offered their support for this series. every comment, every kudos, every bookmark - each one means the world to me. i adore each and every person who decided to give this fic a chance. thank you so much.
> 
> if you'd like to catch my other writings when they're first posted, you can find me on [tumblr](https://teaofpeach.tumblr.com/). it's 18+, so if you pass, come scream at me. it's a little more expansive than my ao3, and i take requests too!
> 
> which reminds me - i am still writing! it's just hospitality going on hiatus, but i am still very much an active fic writer and reader.
> 
> drop some comments/kudos below! thanks for reading, and much love, everyone <3


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